


The Snake and the Bear

by Baylock



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blackmail, Coercion, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-03 01:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baylock/pseuds/Baylock
Summary: Some people are easier to manipulate and tie in knots than others. Bill Williamson is one of the easiest and Micah Bell isn't above blackmail, especially when it comes to Bill's open secret.





	The Snake and the Bear

"Hey, hey, just come over here..."

There was an unmistakable smile in that voice, a fondness for the intended recipient that would be difficult for anyone to deny. It permeated the sentence like the smell of the Flat Iron Lake tainted the camp, winding through and clinging to it like a soupy fog. 

"I-I need to get this done, sir."

There was a little less fondness in that one, less confidence. There was something like a voice breaking, though it sounded more like the side-effect of immaturity than grief. It was nervousness, but there was a nearly bashful laugh tacked on to the end of it, like the flourish following a signature. 

One might have expected a degree of animosity, of stubbornness, but it came across more like a new tavern girl not quite used to the attention of the clientele. 

Micah Bell had heard it all before.

He stood out of sight, at the edge of camp, leaning against a tree in view of the rotting husk of a boat that pre-dated their arrival by months, possibly years. It was hard to tell in the climate. The occasional humidity and lake air had a tendency to eat away at things, especially wood, paint and his patience.

He was bored. The conversation happening a short distance away wasn't helping, but the quiet act of sharpening a knife, and the rhythmic hissing scrapes of the whetstone that were a product of that act, relaxed him in the face of Bill's attempts at ... what, friendliness? No, no. More than that. Flirting.

It was enough to make him sick. Here they were, living in the dirt and oppressive heat of godforsaken Lemoyne, suffering the indignity of mud and mosquitoes, in the company of fallen women and broken men, and Bill Williamson was spending his round of guard duty making eyes at the little O'Driscoll turncoat.

Between the girls, the dog and the parasites, the Van der Linde gang was getting a little... unwieldy. Of course, nobody listened to him when he brought it up, especially when it came to the women. They wandered around, noses in the damned air, shunning any and all advances and occasionally doing a repair or washing something. They lived on the dollars of the more proactive members and they all _stood_ for it. _Dutch_ stood for it. It galled him.

Cowards, all of them. Too soft. Too soft by half.

Most of the rest of the gang had been pulled away on a job, some robbery or other, but him and Bill had been left behind. Morgan had suggested they stay back and keep an eye on things because they'd not long been back from a job themselves -- a lucrative one, if he did say so himself, and his shout, at that-- but they both knew it was because they weren't ideal for subtle raids.

Bill had all the grace and delicacy of a bull in a liquor store and Micah... ohh, now how had Hosea so kindly put it? Oh, yes. He could keep his cool about as well as a rooster in a hall of mirrors. He wasn't likely to forget his sharp tongue any time soon. He had to admire that about the old bastard; he didn't mince his words.

"The horses can wait, can't they..?" Bill said, his voice taking on a pleading element. "Half of them ain't even here! We could-"

Micah rolled his eyes. No subtlety was right on the money. 

"A-all the more reason to get them done while the herd's small," Kieran stammered, ever anxious and apologetic. "Sorry, sir. M-maybe another time..?"

"Hey! Come back! Now's-- ... tch. Shit." Feet scuffed, the steps got fainter, and Bill huffed.

Micah looked up to see the lanky, retreating form of Kieran Duffy hurrying back to the horses. He spent more time with them than the people, though Micah could hardly blame him. Most of them didn't trust him, not when he'd run with Colm O'Driscoll. How could they be expected to? Oh, he tended the horses and kept himself out of the way, but wasn't that more suspicious? That lack of integration should be something to watch, but Bill didn't seem to care. He followed after him often enough, watching him like the brat's mutt watched for tablescraps. Sometimes he picked on him, but he wasn't sure if there was anyone around who didn't know that was entirely for show.

But that was the nature of Bill's little open secret, wasn't it? Everybody knew, but nobody said anything. So long as it didn't happen in plain sight, nobody ever cared. It was just one of those things, one of the gang's little _quirks_. 

Micah examined the edge of his blade with the pad of his thumb and, satisfied, he put the stone away. Keen as ever. He ran the point underneath a short nail, scraping the dirt out. He smirked at the low sound of Bill's muttering, a sound that got closer with every heavy step. 

"Finally going to put in some hours on watch, Cowpoke?" he asked, not looking up.

"What do you mean?" Bill snapped, stopping in front of him. 

He'd been caught off guard. Micah knew then that he was entirely unaware that he was that close, overhearing every word spoken between them. He didn't care much, it was hardly a private conversation, even with the camp mostly deserted. 

"You know exactly," he drew the word out, "what I mean. You're supposed to be keeping watch. Securing a perimeter. Making sure nobody gets the drop on us. Instead you're mooning over that O'Driscoll kid," he looked up, eyebrows raised, eyeing him from beneath the wide white rim of his hat. "Again."

Micah held down another smirk as Bill's eyes narrowed. He saw the indignant stiffness in every line of the man's face and shoulders. He'd seen it often enough in other men. It wasn't quite _fear_ , no that wasn't right... it was more like ... _guilt_. Like he'd been caught doing something he knew he shouldn't. Hell knew he'd worn it enough himself in the past.

Well, if nothing else, it made a change for Bill to be caught doing something. 

"You really shouldn't be fraternisin' with the enemy, Mr. Williamson," he said airily. "Wouldn't go down well if it reached the wrong ears."

"I don't know what you mean," he said, holding his gun across himself in both hands, a defensive gesture. 

"Ohhhh, I think you do," Micah said, voice low. "'Fraternising' is when you make friends with people you ain't meant to, by the way." He kept his tone light, the aural equivalent of a cat batting around a mouse. Playful, but dangerous. "You think your little..." he waved his free hand vaguely. "... _thing_ with that O'Driscoll has gone unnoticed..? Not even you're that dumb, surely."

Bill's intelligence, or lack thereof, was always a source of amusement for Micah. It was possible to call the man a moron to his face and get a look of blank incomprehension in return. He'd probably get a more lively conversation out of his horse, and he was a big dumb beast as well.

"He ain't the enemy, he's one of us now," Bill said hotly, as if the matter had been entirely decided. Some thought it had, thanks to his shooting one of his own during their excursion to Six Point Cabin in defense of Arthur Morgan.

It hadn't, in Micah's opinion, but his opinion rarely seemed to count on certain matters around the camp, that included, so he gave a shrug. "If you say so."

"I do say so," Bill growled. 

"That why you're spendin' so much time with him?" Micah let his head tilt to one side, a lazy action that had all the hallmarks of a challenge in it. "Because he's ... 'one of us now'..? Don't think I didn't hear everythin' you said to him just now. Shame he wasn't interested ..."

Bill made to reply, a surge of anger almost making his beard bristle. "You wanna watch your damn mouth, Micah," he snapped, the muzzle of his longarm swinging around to face him, knuckles white where he gripped the stock and barrel. 

It was amazing how little control he had of his temper, even when sober. More so how nobody had cured him of it permanently. He was grouchy at the best of times, lumbering about like a bear with a sore backside (and Micah did not doubt he'd had one of those more than a few times thanks to his ... predilection) snarling at anybody who looked at him wrong. He supposed that being needled didn't help. Maybe it was time for a little de-escalation.

He shoved the thin blade back into his belt and held both hands up, palms out in a placating gesture. 

"Calm down, friend," he said, speaking each word slowly, carefully, as if to a trigger happy Lawman during a misunderstanding. "If you shoot me they'll all know whose gun it was that did it. It ain't exactly gonna be Strauss, is it? The man's a pen-pushin' coward. Most of the girls are in town havin' a good time at our expense, Pearson don't come over this way and Swanson's a droolin' wreck by the campfire. What do you think they'd do to a traitor, huh? Maybe they'd blame our new," he gave a laugh, " _friend_." 

Bill hesitated, but lowered the gun, pointing it at the ground. The scowl didn't leave his face any more than the residual aggression and anger that had prompted the action in the first place.

"They'd shoot you and not take the time to bury you proper, that's what they'd do. Them's the rules. The way I see it, you need to be more ... discreet about your," he cleared his throat, lowering his hands and hooking his thumbs into his gunbelt. " _Activities_."

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but Micah raised a hand and waved it away, cutting him off.

"The kid's here by the good grace of Dutch, as are we all," he spread his hands like a preacher addressing his congregation, "but I doubt he'll be as understandin' if he finds out there's two of you in his midst, causin' trouble and skippin' off on," he paused to laugh, quiet and unpleasant, "'fishing trips'."

He doubted they got much fishing done, all things considered. Bill lacked the patience for it, Micah would put money on that. Bait the hook, cast it out, wait for a bite. He'd have gotten bored of the entire process by the time it took to spear the maggot. He wasn't much of a fan of fishing himself but he could make an exception for _this_. The hook was certainly easy to bait. Now to cast the line...

"You been spyin' on me?" Bill asked, a bite to his words that carried the threat of swift retribution by way of a fist to the face, if not a bullet.

Micah laughed.

"Me?" He asked, feigning innocence. "Of course not, I sure as hell don't want to see what a degenerate like you gets up to, but you ain't exactly been... careful, have you? Oh, you might think you're being sneaky, but you sound like a ruttin' hog in the early hours. The others might sleep through it, but I ain't blessed with sleep as deep as all that."

Bill's expression changed once again from anger to that of someone having been caught out. He narrowed his eyes again and set his jaw, looking around sharply for anyone who might be looking to overhear.

"You just keep your damned mouth shut," he snapped. 

Micah leaned back against his tree. That bait was certainly working. Cold though the water might be, it was doing a good job of making the fish take notice. 

"Or what?" He asked, mildly, pulling a pre-rolled cigarette from his pocket and putting it between his lips.

"Or--"

"Deviancy, was it?" He asked, around the thin tube of paper and tobacco, patting his waistcoat pocket for a match. "Was that the main charge, or was that the murder? Tell me, which is higher up the ladder of punishable crimes in the army?" He asked, cocking his head to one side. "I wouldn't know, you see. I'm not a military man myself." 

"You just--" Bill snapped, raising his voice just enough to startle a nearby bird to flight. The beating wings sounded loud on the edge of the near-empty camp. He stopped, making sure nobody left behind had been disturbed.

"Way I see it, I could tell everyone," Micah said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth again and shrugging his shoulders, unconcerned at Bill's impending explosion of temper. "Or you could do me a _favour_ and I could keep my mouth shut."

Silence passed between them, the only sound the rustling of the trees, the distant thud of Pearson chopping meat and the gentle lap of water against the shore. Micah wondered how long it would take Bill to catch on. If he did.

"What kinda favour?" He asked suspiciously, through gritted teeth.

He didn't.

It was cruel, really. Micah almost felt bad for doing it to him, but it was an opportunity and they didn't present themselves near often enough, especially considering their circumstances. It was a fair trade, really. 

"Well with all you get up to, and I'm not entirely sure how you managed to bully the O'Driscoll into it, I'm sure, I figure you could see your way to offerin' me a service in return for my silence," he said, lowering his voice. He kept it above a whisper, but ensured it was quiet enough to not be overheard.

Bill looked aghast at the very idea, like he'd just been asked to shoot Dutch in the back. He backed away a few steps, the gun held loosely enough in one hand as to almost scrape the ground, risking filling the muzzle with mud. He looked back at him, stopped, and retraced his steps back to where he started. Fury passed over his face, followed be a renewed bout of indignation.

"That's... that's bribery," he hissed, pointing at Micah accusingly with his free hand.

"It's blackmail," he corrected.

He could almost hear the gears grinding in Bill's brain, a dull, slow creak of possibilities and consequences, of him weighing up whether he was joking with him, mocking him or actually being serious. Micah let him work it through, fiddling with the cigarette in the meantime.

"I'm not lettin' you..." Bill started, scowling at him. 

"Bill," Micah said over him, voice calm and soothing in an attempt to mollify him. "I wouldn't want to fuck you with somebody else's. That said, ain't nobody gonna notice a bit more mud on your knees, if you, ah, catch my meanin'."

You could never be sure, not with Bill, but the glare that settled on the his face spoke volumes about his understanding in that instance.

"Don't look like that," Micah said with an exaggerated sigh. "It ain't gonna be easy for me either. Imagine tryin' to keep it up with your face right there." 

Bill looked thoughtful and Micah rather thought it looked like it hurt. He gave a huff. "... I do that and you keep your mouth shut?"

And there was the bite. Time to reel it in. 

"You have my word," Micah assured him.

"Well, shit." He leaned his gun up against a tree and looked as sulky as a petulant child. After a moment he rounded on Micah, pointing a thick finger at his face, an inch from his nose. "Ain't like I got much of a choice."

"We've always got a choice, Bill," Micah said, his tone all full of reassurance. "It's just a case of makin' the right one, and the right one in this case..." 

Bill kept his eyes fixed on Micah's as he slipped the cigarette between his teeth for a moment and undid his fly. He didn't even look down when he pulled himself out. Micah couldn't blame him. The last thing he expected Bill wanted at that moment was to look eager.

"You'll have to forgive me if it takes me a moment to get going," Micah said, sounding not at all apologetic. "Usually I have prettier faces to look at." 

Prettier sure, but almost always paid. Micah wasn't one to get all self-conscious about paying for the services of a working woman. At least they knew what they were doing and didn't require too much in the way of reciprocation. They were nice to him, because he wasn't about to pay in advance. He was just sorry he missed out on Abigail's apparently brief tenure as the camp whore. That would have made life a lot easier.

Bill scowled and got to his knees with a grunt, a noise that threatened to ensure Micah stayed soft, possibly for the rest of his life. Some things he just didn't need to hear. Or see, so he shut his eyes. He had thoughts to call upon, visual aids in his mind's eye to block out the thought of Bill Williamson's ugly scowling face. His hand did the rest. 

"This ain't a spectator sport," he said after a few moments, slowing his strokes.

A hand came to rest on his hip, behind his holster, before he felt the first warm, wet brush of tongue. Bill Williamson or not, that was a pretty welcome sensation. He drew his hand back, holding his cock steady in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, waiting...

To Bill's credit he wasn't hesitant. 

Micah held his cigarette idly in his free hand, unlit, jaw clenching lightly as Bill took him into his mouth, not bothering with the teasing, probing licks the girls employed to try to earn both a little more goodwill and a little more coin. The hot wetness of his mouth was enough to draw a groan from him, a sound stifled by gritted teeth. 

The camp might be near empty, but he wasn't going to draw any attention over to them, not even that of Strauss, or Swanson, when neither of whom would dare say a word regardless of what they saw lest one of them happened to be in a strangling mood. 

Micah tried not to be mildly impressed with effort Bill put in and tried even harder not to think of it as Bill at all. He thought of prettier mouths, of prettier lips wrapped around his cock, stained red with whatever it was the whores used to make them stand out. The occasional brush of Bill's wiry beard against his steadying hand ruined the thoughts he had to that effect, thoughts of Abigail as he imagined her as she might have been before little Jacky came along and she closed all doors, and her legs, to entanglements with other men; of Mary-Beth, no doubt inexperienced and shy; of Karen, feisty and argumentative, but probably filthy in bed. All had their draws and all were kicked from his imagination by the rough scratch of hair. 

His breath hitched as his tongue slid along the underside of his length, rough and welcome, covering Bill's teeth. He wondered how much experience he actually had, how many superior officers he'd sucked to curry favour with, and how many times, if any, he'd done this to Colm O'Driscoll's nervous little whipping boy. He could have laughed at the thought. 

"Speed it up a bit," he said in his drawl, planting his hand on the back of Bill's hat, cigarette between his fingers. "You might like being caught in compromisin' situations with other men, but I'd rather get this done with." 

If Bill wanted to argue, the pressure on the back of his head stopped him pulling away to snap a reply. 

Micah felt the back of his throat with the head of his cock and let his mouth fall open, the ghost of a grin lingering. He laughed low, fingers curling into the hat's fabric without much input from his conscious mind, "...ahaha... I've had whores choke at that... you're better than I thought... y'know, we could always make this a regular thing..." 

He felt Bill jerk then, a sharp movement as he made to pull back, but he held him in place, not wanting to lose the feeling of wet heat just yet. Humiliating him felt almost as good as his mouth did. 

"Relaaax," Micah said, voice taking on a ragged edge. "I'm joking." 

The hat was no real substitute for a handful of hair, but his capacity to care about the perfect situation deteriorated the closer he got to the end of his tether. It would have been polite to let the man come up for air, but Micah Bell had never met a form of rude disregard he didn't like. 

The one he liked the most was the ability to not drop in a warning. He could have said something, tapped his head, or shoulder, but he didn't. Why would he? Bill knew how this went by now, knew how this worked, just as the women did, so he had no right to complain when Micah held him more tightly, or when he bucked his hips forward enough to press against the back of his throat again, harder that time. He felt him gag, felt the attempt at a cough, the reflexive tightening around him that came with the involuntary resistance to a sudden rush in the throat. 

He let go when he was finished, letting his hand slide off Bill's now decidedly askew hat. The sudden prickle of cold air against his skin as Bill pulled back, coughing, wasn't enough to wipe the smirk off his face. 

Bill spat on the ground, expression furious. "You--" 

"Gimme a minute," Micah said, leaning heavily against his tree and and releasing a deep breath as a laugh. 

Bill continued to splutter, angry. He got to his feet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with his face red ... though if it was with embarrassment or the sudden ability to breathe properly again, Micah couldn't tell. 

"You ain't half bad, Williamson," he said, tucking himself away, a crooked smirk on his face. "You sure you're not up for a repeat of that some time?"

That served to incense Bill further and Micah wondered, for a moment, if he was going to hit him. When the fury passed, Bill glared and brushed at his knees, his dark eyes narrowed and his expression threatening. 

"I _ain't_ doin' that again," he snarled. 

"Yeah, yeah," Micah said, putting the crumpled cigarette he'd been saving throughout the entire thing between his lips. He felt for the match in his pocket and struck it, the flame fizzing to life with an abrasive scratch and a hiss. 

"Just so long as you keep your mouth shut," Bill said, straightening his hat.

"Would I lie to you?" Micah asked, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette and inhaling to make it catch. It glowed cherry red in the shade of the tree.

Well, yes. He would. But fun though that was, he wasn't sure he'd want to make a habit of it. He wasn't half bad, but Bill Williamson wasn't somebody he'd consider using more than once. Few people were. He's one fish he'd have to throw back. Some just weren't worth keeping. 

"You know damn well you would," Bill said, brushing at his clothes. 

"True," Micah told him, exhaling a cloud of smoke in his direction. "But in this case, you have my word. I won't tell Dutch about you and the O'Driscoll." He said pointedly.

"See that you don't," Bill said, picking up his gun and turning to walk away. 

"I'd go and have a drink if I were you," Micah said, deep-set eyes alight with amusement. "Might wash the taste away. Bye now."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not one for posting my work, but in this case I figured, well, why not. 
> 
> Micah is a blast to write, partly because he's fun to get into the head of, because he's so terrible, and partly because the way he talks is wonderful. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! c:


End file.
